


Botany

by Jaydeun



Series: Making Friends [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 10:21:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20758802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydeun/pseuds/Jaydeun
Summary: God: It wasn't just plants. And Aziraphale is not as oblivious as he pretends.





	Botany

“A botanical expedition?” Crowley asked. They had packed the Bentley with provisions for the day, cress and cucumber sandwiches for Aziraphale and a secreted flask of whiskey for Crowley, procured once he discovered this was _Anathema’s_ idea. Reinforcements, lets say.

Aziraphale tucked himself into the passenger’s seat looking peculiarly like a Victorian botanist in his tweed coat and tartan wellies.

“I think she makes an excellent point,” he hummed. “With the Apocalypse over, we really _should _expand our hobbies. Like your horticulturalism.”

Crowley winced slightly.

“It’s not a religion, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him an indulgent look that Crowley would never admit unraveled him. Then he gave Crowley’s knee an affectionate pat.

“Whatever you say, dear,” he said.

Crowley knew a blush was creeping up from the V of his Henley, so he lurched the Bentley forward to distract Aziraphale with hanging on for dear life. _Fucking gorgeous idiot_, Crowley thought. Without heaven to worry about, there had been a lot more pats and touches and day-outings, and Crowley’s ability to button up his emotions had never been all that stupendous. _Plants. _They were going to look at plants. _S’fine_, he told himself.

It was a long drive, even going well over the limit (and perhaps bending physics a bit). Crowley knew most of the good gardens—Kew, for instance, was a favorite. But they were heading all the way to West Sussex… just outside the borough of _Crawley_….and the place was called _Mens Nature Reserve. _Crowley planned to have a chat with Anathema about her sense of humor.

He could see Dirk Turpin, parked in a discreet lot under a row of oaks. Newt looked as bemused as ever, his hair sticking up in mussed spikes as though he’s had a go at a light socket. Which was, Crowley reasoned, a real possibility. Anathema had traded her fuzzy blue overcoat for something almost as out of place as Aziraphale’s tweed.

“Going on safari?” He asked as they crossed the lot. She twirled, the khaki configuration rustling over crinoline she no doubt added herself.

“Like it?”

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale sang.

“Yeah, very flattering—why are we here, exactly?” he asked, peering over his shades to get a better look at the brilliant spring green that swallowed up the trailheads on either side.

“_Because,” _Anathema took Crowley’s arm and marched him forward like a general, “We are giving you both a lesson in _wild_ horticulture.”

“And you’re an expert, are you?” he asked, quirking a grin at the way she snapped her fingers for Newt to follow, Aziraphale in tow.

“Witch,” she shrugged. “Herbs. Medicine. Poison. It’s part of the three R’s.”

“None of which start with R,” Crowley began, but she broke from him to point at Aziraphale.

“Principality, you have a mission!” she announced. The angel had already been almost shining in the pale sunlight—now he _beamed. _White curls clung to light with faint iridescence as he stood suddenly at attention.

“A mission! How excellent. What are my orders?”

“_You_ are going to help us find _jewelweed.”_

“Impatiens capensis,” Newt offered, reading off a crumpled card in his pocket. “It’s like this.” He held up the scrap, and Crowley noted a brilliant orange trumpet of three-lobed corolla with a hooked conical spur at the back.

“It’s very special,” Anathema smiled in a way that Crowley recognized as just a bit demonic, “It’s a transplant from America.”

“An interloper, you mean,” Crowley said, raising an eyebrow significantly.

“I prefer to think of it as a useful addition,” Anathema said. “You up here with me, Aziraphale!” She hooked his arm in hers and the two trooped off like a Victorian couple on an orchid hunt. Newt gave Crowley the nervous half-smile he always did, the one that said ‘oh God you are best friends with my girlfriend’ and ‘please don’t hurt me’ all at once. The desire to cause Newt’s shoelaces to come untied already itched under Crowley’s skin—and it must have been rather apparent in the ether because Aziraphale cast him a long-suffering glance over his shoulder. _Be nice._

One of Crowley’s eye teeth snagged against his lip, slightly too long. _I’m always nice_.

“So Newt,” he said, throwing one loose-jointed limb around Newt’s shoulders, “Like plants, do you?”

***

_Circaea lutetia_na; enchanter's nightshade. _Caltha palustris_; Kingcup.

“What about this one?” Newt asked, pointing to a five-petal in pale orange with pink stamen. Crowley grinned.

“Scarlet Pimpernel,” Crowley said. “Overblown git in a badly executed story. Flowers are nice though.” Crowley had to hand it to Newt; he was so bad at identifying flora that he’d managed to distract Crowley from catching Newt’s hair in low hanging branches, or tangle his feet in tree roots.

“Right. Got it. Bad story, good flower,” Newt scribbled into a notepad with a fiercely chewed nib of a pencil. Crowley’s index finger hooked round the edge of the pad, angling it downward to examine. He’d been repeating Crowley’s Latin, too, and spelling it dismally.

“Why, exactly, are you taking notes?” he asked. Crowley tapped his chin with a black-painted fingernail, much the way Nanny Ashteroth may have done. Newt hopped nervously from one foot to the other.

“Anathema, you know?” He swallowed and nodded up ahead. “She likes plants so much… And I’m almost as good at plants as I am with technology.”

That was a decidedly awful thought. The man could bring down power stations—was he spreading Elm blight or something? Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and indicated they ought to catch up. He also managed a small demonic miracle to keep Newt from tumbling into a thorn bush on the way. The fellow was so bloody self-damaging he tended to beat Crowley at his own game.

Up ahead, Anathema gave a whoop and waved enthusiastic arms at them.

“Zira found it!” she shouted, and Aziraphale did something between a bow and a curtsy at Crowley, twisting his ankle outward shyly. Crowley attempted to keep his breath from hitching as his heart did an embarrassing flutter.

“Weed patrol successful?” he managed.

“Oh _do _look, Crowley, it’s just perfect!” Aziraphale said. He had pinked over from the joy of being useful, bouncing on his heels, and almost glowing with angelic light.

“Perfect,” Crowley repeated, his voice choking slightly. He knew Anathema was watching him. And grinning toothily. But when she spoke, it was to Newt.

“Allow me introduce the American interloper,” she said, and held up the trumpet of flower, just under Newt’s nose. “Do you see that lovely shape? Curled like a fallopian?”

“Fall—fallopian?” Newt squeaked.

“It’s just the right shape and size to be entered,” She pressed against the opening of petals. “And down here, deep inside, where the stamen stands erect—”

Newt had just sagged sideways into Crowley, realized his mistake, jerked the other direction and backed into a tree. It didn’t take demonic powers to hear his heart going mad. Crowley reminded himself to approve of Anathema’s technique later.

“Don’t be too shy to peek inside,” Anathema said, stepping forward to where Newt was vibrating in alarm. “Do you want to see where the pollen goes?” she asked.

“I—um—we’re—” he swallowed and looked wide-eyed at Crowley and Aziraphale. “It’s a pubic forest!”

“Of course it is, Silly. And we are having a botany lesson—aren’t we, Aziraphale?”

The angel kept vigil over his discovery.

“Wonderfully instructive!” he agreed gleefully, oblivious to the plight of Newt. Crowley felt a surge of un-demon-like sympathy. Aziraphale was a danger to himself and others: angelic powers, genius intellect—and no grasp at all of double entendre. Anathema whirled round, leaving Newt to stutter and gulp in her wake.

“Freshly crushed and rubbed into skin stops irritation. A tincture promotes blood flow, reduced swelling. It’s medicinal,” she said.

Crowley retrieved his hip flask and handed it to Newt.

“Also medicinal,” he said. Newt swallowed two mouthfuls, coughed at the burning sensation, swallowed two more. “Better?”

“Much,” Newt croaked.

“Right, well done. Lunch?” Crowley asked. But when Anathema faced him in turn, she had that alligator look—just under the surface of water and you weren’t sure where the strike would come.

“Oh Crowley, there’s _so_ much more to learn. Zira, will you help me?” Aziraphale rushed to her side like an eager puppy. “Now, we know you have the softest hands—we need a delicate touch for this next part.”

Crowley felt a sudden swoop in his stomach, and his eyes couldn’t help but dart over those delicate fingers, pampered and pink.

“Come closer,” Anathema whispered, then she carefully pushed away the pale green leaves to reveal a series of bean-like pods. “You see these? I want you to touch one—just one.”

Crowley’s skin felt ten degrees warmer suddenly, an itchy, tight feeling. _It’s plants, _he told his brain. But Aziraphale leaned in, breathless, extending the soft pad of his index finger toward the pod. Distance closed between that tender touch and the straining seam of bright green—a faint brush of flesh, and the pod burst open, sending seeds into the air.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, delighted.

“Hrkle,” Crowley gulped.

“I am very confused,” Newt admitted.

Anathema’s gator grin turned to a laugh.

“This is the secret of the jewel,” she said, winking. “All these fat, ripe, swollen pods contain seed. And the seed is ready to burst into the world with the proper—stimulation.”

“Amazing!” Aziraphale touched another, and another, pod seams splitting and rolling back, seeds spilling out into his hand. At last, he gripped a palm-full, and Crowley staggered into the same tree Newt had been leaning against. Newt handed him his flask back.

“Here, you’d better,” He said, and Crowley agreed very much, swallowing enough to empty it if he hadn’t taken demonic self-filling precautions.

“Crowley, come try it!” Aziraphale implored, because he might as well discorporate Crowley and be done with it, “look how they shiver when you touch them!”

Crowley ground his teeth together to keep a strangled whimper from escaping and walked toward the spreading clump of flowers and leaves. _It’s just plants_, he told himself, repeating it like a mantra. He leaned forward, hands outstretched, and then Aziraphale was there, almost at his ear—

“Exploding plant sex pods!” he said.

Crowley’s senses scattered as a hot flush prickled along invisible wings—and every pod within a ten foot radius spontaneously burst.

Narrator/God: _It wasn’t just plants. And Aziraphale is not nearly as oblivious as Crowley imagines. _


End file.
